More Than a Duke(96)
The din of chatter and the orchestra’s distant strands faded into nothing more than background noise. …You’ve served your purpose… Her cruelly, mocking words weaved around his mind and he touched the slip of fabric buried inside his coat, pressed against his heart, a forever reminder of Lady Anne Adamson’s faithlessness. He raised his glass in mock salute.
Color flooded her cheeks and she dropped her stare to the ground, but not before he detected the trace of hurt.
He scoffed. A heartless, title-grasping wench like Anne was incapable of being wounded.
From across the stretch of lawn, Katherine glared at him. He bowed low at the waist. If looks could kill a person, he’d have been flayed to bits by the fury in her once friendly eyes. She snapped her skirts and presented him with her back.
Just another thing destroyed by Anne’s cruel hands; not only his heart, but his friendship with her loyal, devoted sister.
“Look away, Stanhope,” Edgerton murmured at his shoulder. “Neither of those ladies is worth your time or efforts.”
Katherine had been. Her sister, well, Anne had not, nor would she ever be worthy of his time and efforts and yet, he could not ignore this tangible pull between them.
A familiar, loathsome form materialized behind Anne. The bastard, in his arrogance hadn’t even deigned to wear a costume. The Duke of Crawford called her attention away and capturing Anne’s fingers, he bowed over her hand.
Harry tortured himself with the blush that climbed her neck and cheeks, a blush she surely summoned on will alone. Fleecing hearts, indeed.
“One viper for another,” his friend muttered. Harry followed his stare to the approaching, Athena in pleated Greek skirts.
Lady Margaret stopped before them. “Hullo, Harry,” she greeted, her voice thick with emotion.
He cast a glance over her delicate shoulders and found Anne’s focus on his exchange with Margaret. Relishing the momentary flash of regret that flickered in her eyes, he raised Margaret’s hand to his lips. And this time, he allowed her to drag him away from the reminders of his greatest mistake in life.
As he followed her down the dimly lit gravel path, he registered a pair of eyes trained on his back. It was foolish to imagine it was Anne. She’d been quite explicit in her feelings for him and her aspirations for Crawford.
“The Lord Stanhope I remember was always full of humor and quick to speak,” Margaret murmured, pulling him back to the moment.
“Fighting a duel for a young lady who then chooses an old letch tends to make a gentleman more cautious.” But not cautious enough to know better than to give his heart to Anne.
Margaret paused beside a towering fountain. Fireworks lit the sky in hues of red and orange, illuminating the bubbling water. She stared down silently as though searching for words. “I spent nearly eight years regretting my marriage, Harry. I thought I might be happy with the title of duchess,” she confessed.
Just as Anne. Only Anne’s duke would be pleasantly handsome, unfailingly polite, wealthy and in possession of one of the oldest titles… His gut tightened. “And you’ve not been happy in eight years?”
She toyed with the fabric of her skirts and gave a curt shake of her head. “No. I’ve not been happy,” she said tersely.
He expected he should find some sense of victory in her misery. Only, with time he’d found he’d not truly loved Margaret. A young gentleman’s arrogance and the battle he’d waged with Rutland for the lady’s affections had driven him more than any real sentiments of love. He’d failed to realized that—until Anne.
“You don’t love me,” she whispered, the word bore traces of shock and pain.
He said nothing.
“I believed at Lady Preston’s ball your treatment of me was driven by jealousy and old hurts. But it wasn’t. Was it?” She turned to face him. Her lower lip trembled, indicating there was, in fact, more depth to the capricious woman who’d walked out of his life. Still, he felt no stirring of emotion, no desire for more with her. Lady Margaret belonged to his past. “You’ve come to care for another.”
No. He didn’t care for Anne Adamson. He loved her. Even with her betrayal, he would always love her.
Margaret caught her lower lip between her teeth.
“I’m sorry, Margaret,” he said, simply. Finding that he truly meant it.
She folded her arms across her waist. “Is it…?” She hesitated “The Lady Anne Adamson?”
Even though Anne didn’t deserve any loyalty from him, he’d not betray the memory of her with this woman.